


Legacy

by orphan_account



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Angst, F/M, Major Spoilers, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, for real this time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In January of 1948, only two months after Cole Phelps's death, Marie Phelps decides to step up and make a name for herself within the LAPD. However, such a thing comes with a price—that price being a partnership with the man her husband hated the most.





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> we back
> 
> \- ri (denounce)

Marie never hated him for what he did.

There was anger, true, and betrayal, absolutely, but never _hatred._ She doesn’t think she could _ever_ hate him; they had spent so much of their lives together, so many years that it would be a chore to count, so much _time_ that to hate him would be dishonest to herself and to what they had together. Perhaps that was the most painful thing— that they had dedicated everything to each other, and he threw it all away like it meant nothing. The sting is still there even now, even this many months after November, even as the new year has come to pass and brought the biting cold of January 1948 in its wake.

Marie hates winter, now. It was once a season that she held in high regard; her family passed down the story of Charles Dickens’s very first public reading of _A Christmas Carol,_ back in 1853 on the twenty-seventh of December. Every time her mother told her the story that her great-grandmother told _her_ children, Marie was captivated, never once losing focus and always asking new questions. Happiness, especially from family tales and traditions, should be above love, above grief, but… ever since Cole died, she hasn’t been able to find even the barest sliver of such a thing within her heart. She felt sick when she so much as _thought_ of being happy, so why bother? It felt _wrong._ She was sad, her children were sad— to be happy would be tarnishing his memory, would it not?

But maybe he would’ve _wanted_ her to be happy. _There’s your reason,_ the angel on her shoulder would chime, harpsichord poised in its hands, _why not be happy for him?_ Then the devil on her other shoulder, pitchfork at the ready, would stomp its feet and scream and act like a child, yelling _No! If he wanted that, he wouldn’t have left her, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have broken apart their home, wouldn’t have thrown away everything they had, wouldn’t have given up and_ died _because he couldn’t handle what he’d become!_ And that was how it was for days, weeks, _months._ A constant internal battle, her conscience and her bitterness tearing each other apart as one half wished to forgive him and the other stayed furious.

It was _torture._ As far as Marie’s concerned, it’ll always be there— it’ll always be lurking in the back of her mind, every time she looks around the house and lays her eyes upon photos of him, every time she looks at their beautiful daughters and see his face. It gnaws at her soul and claws at her ankles, the ever-consuming jaws of numbness threatening to pull her under the waves and leave her to drown. _God,_ she can’t even _look_ at a body of water anymore, much less a rushing one. It hurts too much, reminds her of how her husband met his demise in those Godforsaken tunnels.

Around the eighth of January is when Marie decided to do something about this. She couldn’t sit there under a cloud of depression her whole life, no matter how tempting it was to her susceptible mind. So she called up her old boss, an unconventional woman by the name of Penny Lawrence who wore nicely-pressed suits and made a name for herself in spite of the animosity society had for black women, and asked if her short-lived career in investigative journalism held any weight in the real world. It had been a few years, coming up to about four this year, but— she still kept all of her notes. Hell, she still _took_ notes on just about every little thing that interested her.

 _“I know that tone,”_ Penny had said, and Marie could hear her lighting up a cigarette over the phone. _“What’s the plan, baby?”_

And for a long time, Marie just stood there, leaning against her kitchen counter with her own cigarette between two fingers and her eyes on the ceiling. _“I don’t know,”_ she said then, and she had meant it. _“But I think I have an idea.”_

The next few days went by in a whirlwind. Penny had ended the call after a long conversation, saying she’d get some papers to Los Angeles by Sunday at the most, but Marie couldn’t wait that long. It was only a few days, however she’s always been the bull-headed one in her family. So she rung up her father and asked for enough money to buy some new clothing, enough to get her through a few days without needing to wash anything. What she bought would shock just about anyone born after the Victorian era in her family; waistcoats, knee-length skirts, ties, and oxfords that would be more practical to run in than _heels._ Her plan was slowly, _ever-_ so-slowly coming to fruition— all she needed was to waltz into the station and get the job she knows she deserves.

Here she is now on the morning of the tenth, a Saturday, new outfit finely ironed and fitted perfectly; a tan waistcoat and skirt, with a crisp white button-up collared blouse and chocolate-brown tie underneath, complete with flesh-toned stockings and shiny chocolate-brown oxfords to match her tie. She walks with purpose, head held high and jaw held tight as she ignores the stares of just about everybody in the building, every exclamation of _“you’re not supposed to be back here!”_ just going in one ear and out the other. Her path changes towards the first group of detectives she sees, coming up to an awfully loud-suited man with a cigarette between his teeth and _quite_ a lot to say to his coworkers.

Marie not-so-kindly clears her throat and taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she says, and judging by the looks on his fellow detectives’ faces, they never expected to see her again after the funeral. “Where or _who_ would I go to in order to land a job here?”

The man himself looks just as shocked to see her when he turns to meet her gaze— and much to her own surprise, she’d just so happened to pick out the one man in the crowd who’d performed her husband’s _eulogy_. Roy Earle, if she remembers correctly; Cole had talked about him at the dinner table a few times while still on the Vice desk. He looks her up and down, something unreadable in his expression as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. When he blows out smoke, he doesn’t bother to aim it away from her. She wrinkles her nose. “What, as a secretary?” Another drag of his cigarette. “Try downstairs, sweetheart. If it’s a tea party you’re looking for, you’re not gonna find it with us boys.”

“Do you think you’re funny?” Marie snips, irritation already off the charts as she crosses her arms and taps her foot. She barrels on without a care in the world when he opens his mouth to respond, effectively cutting him off before he can even draw a breath. “No, don’t say anything— do you think your little _remarks_ are going to result in anything other than a slap to the face, Earle? I’m _not_ looking for a job downstairs, for your information, I’m looking for one up here. As a _detective._ ” She reaches into a rather deep pocket in her skirt and pulls out a small notebook and pencil, holding them up. “I even have the required materials, not to mention my passion for critical thinking and my illustrious career in investigative journalism during the war, which you can contact my former employer Penelope Harper Lawrence regarding references. Furthermore—”

“Alright, alright, slow your roll there,” Roy says, and he takes another deliberately _slow_ drag before continuing.  There’s that unreadable expression on his face again; all she can make out is the barest hint of melancholy, maybe even grief. He’s quick to cover it up with a crooked grin when he notices her scrutiny. “I can see there’s not gonna be any arguing with you, so— follow me.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin before turning on his heel.

For a long moment, Marie just stares after him, still holding her materials. _Oh._ She quickly puts them back in her pocket and moves to catch up to him, silently cursing the man’s long legs as she has quite the difficult time trying to keep up with his strides. Ah, no matter; she’s far too _elated_ right now to care. But _is_ it elation, even? She doesn’t really know— maybe her joy is merely from the fact that she won the battle. “I’m surprised,” she starts with just a touch of smugness in her tone, finally managing to match his pace. “Surely, I thought you’d be a more formidable foe than _that._ ”

Roy hums, and when they pass a desk with an ashtray, he drops his cigarette in it without stopping. He doesn’t reply, not yet, merely going to pull out his pack and light another one, taking a drag. “What can I say? You’re just like your husband.” He breathes out a laugh that shouldn’t really be called a _laugh;_ it’s too weak, too strained. “I figured there was no point in even trying to put up a fight and I’m a sore loser.” His tone is joking, but even then, there’s that same fragility to it, as if his obvious facade is threatening to shatter at any time. “Just going off of the past few minutes, I’m betting you’re Don’s favorite type of stubborn. You should have no problem convincing him to hire you.”

“Good,” Marie says, straightening up and holding her head just as high as she was when she first walked in here. “Because I will _not_ be leaving this building without a job.” She goes quiet for a few steps, just staring up at Roy with furrowed brows and an intensely analytical gaze. He’s an asshole, yes, but he isn’t the kind of asshole she expected to meet— when Cole spoke of him, he made the man sound like an absolute _monster._ As far as she knows, even though it may be too early to accurately judge his character, Roy isn’t _too_ bad; sure, he needs to learn his place, but that isn’t too hard of a thing to accomplish. There’s something about him that gives her something to think about, namely the way he mentioned her _husband._ In his tone there was remorse, sorrow, this sense that something was _missing_ from his life the way somebody misses a lover— it’s intriguing.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts by Roy speaking up. “I know I’m attractive, but it’s still rude to  stare, sweetheart,” he drawls, coming to a stop outside of an office door emblazoned with the words _‘Capt. Bailey’_ in gold leaf and knocking. “It’s Roy, Don! Brought you a lil’ something.” He waits for an answer from the other side before moving to hold it open for her. “After you.”

Marie only rolls her eyes at the little remark, deciding not to push it as she moves past him and into Captain Bailey’s office. If she’s being totally honest, she’s rather glad that Colymer isn’t here— they had met only briefly, during some sort of office party, but she despised him more than anybody else she’d met from the station. Bailey, thankfully, looks quite… _friendly,_ and not the type of friendly that’d have her running for the hills. She clears her throat, clasping her hands in front of herself and gathering all of the courage she can before speaking. “Hello, sir,” she starts, and despite how much she tries to quell her nervous habits, she begins to wring her hands. “You may know me, you may not, but— my name is Marie Phelps, and I would like a job as a detective.”

Bailey raises his eyebrows at her words, but his surprise quickly gives way to a warm smile— almost fatherly in a way, and just as comforting. He gestures for both her and Roy to sit. “Well, Ms. Phelps,” he starts once they’ve both taken chairs, moving to open a desk door and lean over to rifle through it, “I’d be happy to consider you if you’re anything like your husband.” A pause, as he retrieves a stack of paperwork and sits back up, setting it in front of him. He holds his hands on the desk. “My condolences, by the way, but I won’t dwell on the topic for the sake of us all. Tell me, are you well aware of the risk you’ll be taking by joining such a field?”

There’s a deep _pang_ in her heart at the mention of her husband, but— Marie carries on without losing her poker face, giving a nod. “Yes, sir,” she says, holding eye contact like a true professional. “I was in just as much danger as a journalist, back in ‘44. It may be important to note that I know how to handle a gun, too; my father taught me the ins and outs by the time I was sixteen, for self-defense.” She shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands in her lap. A sudden and _incredibly_ vivid memory washes over her senses— holding Cole’s .45 after the war, firing it at the range, her hands in his as he explained each component of the gun and taught her exactly how to use it. She inhales deeply, exhaling through her nose. “I work best with an Army .45.”

Bailey hums slightly, leaning back in his chair but keeping his fingers laced together. “A fine choice, I’d say,” he says, regarding her with that same warm smile. “I prefer a revolver myself, but perhaps I’m a bit old school.” He takes a minute to continue, eyebrows furrowing as he presumably thinks over his next words. He clears his throat. “There’s also the matter of you being of the, uh, _fairer_ sex, Ms. Phelps. You need to be prepared to face adversity amongst the other detectives. The LAPD is a real boy’s club— they don’t exactly know how to play nice when it comes to women, especially not when they think they’re stealing their jobs right from under their noses. Will you be able to handle that?”

“If they’re anything like Earle here, I think I can handle them just fine, sir,” Marie says, disregarding the scoff that gets from the man sitting by her side. She sits a little straighter, shoulders back and core held tight— an undoubtedly _queenly_ position, taken in order to assert her dominance. “I know that their struggles with women come from their pitiful _failures_ with us.” Oh, she _knows_ she’s getting a rise out of the man sitting next to her, and she absolutely _loves_ it; her mother often pointed out that she was too petty for her own good. “I refuse to allow a fellow officer’s _personal biases,_ ” she sneers, “interfere with my work.”

Bailey looks between the two, something akin to amusement in his features. “I see you’re already making bad impressions, Roy,” he remarks, and he barks out a laugh. He slides the stack of papers he’d pulled from his drawer towards Marie. “As far as I’m concerned, Ms. Phelps, you’d be a fine addition to our squad, but there’s still the matter of paperwork. You’ll also need to partake in a bit of training and education before we can let you out on the field— nothing you won’t be able to handle, as you’ve proven.” He moves to hold out a hand, then, smile widening into a bright grin. “Let me be the first to welcome you to the LAPD. You can start as soon as everything’s processed.”

Marie’s composure slips. She only stares at his hand for a long time, mouth agape. After giving a somewhat disbelieving laugh, _amazed_ that it was all _this_ easy to get the job that her husband worked so hard to achieve, she quickly brings her gaze back up to Bailey’s face and shakes his hand. Firm and businesslike. “Thank you very much for this opportunity, sir,” she says, and for the first time since she entered the station this morning, there’s an actual _smile_ on her face, her heart swelling with glee at the same time. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Bailey says, grin not faltering for a moment as he pulls his hand back. He glances between the two of them once more. “There’s one more matter to attend to, of course, and that would be who you’ll be partnered up with. Most of our boys already have one, but...” He chooses to turn his full attention to Roy, then. “Earle, meet your new partner.”

Before Marie can even _think_ to rebut, Roy sputters, obviously choking on the smoke of his cigarette. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Bailey rolls his eyes. “You heard me loud and clear, Roy,” he says, and he holds up a hand when Roy looks like he wants to argue. “You’ve gone on without a partner long enough. It’s time you learn how to play nice with others— and who better than with the new kid? I think it’ll be a good experience for the both of you.” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “You learn a little teamwork, Ms. Phelps learns the ropes from our very own star of Vice. We all win.”

Roy opens his mouth to speak— gets cut off by Marie. “Sir, this is a wonderful idea and all, but— I believe it would be more constructive to pair me with somebody I don’t already have bad blood with.” She glances over to the man beside her; when their eyes meet, there’s an unspoken sort of _rivalry_ crackling between them. _Say yes,_ the impish and spiteful side of her hisses, _why not be a contrarian? It’d be very,_ very _satisfying._ Setting her jaw, Marie returns her attention to Bailey. “However, if _you_ believe it’d be best for us both, I suppose I can’t argue with you.”

Bailey turns his attention back to Roy. “Ms. Phelps agrees,” he says. “So, that leaves you. Are you going to throw a tantrum or are you going to be professional?”

Roy inhales deeply. Exhales. In. Out. He’s obviously _very_ focused on staying collected— every breath he takes is steady, almost _calculated_. “Fine,” he says, and he reaches forward to put his cigarette out in the ashtray on Bailey’s desk. “If that’s what you want, then I guess I can’t argue either.”

At that, Bailey claps his hands together. “Excellent! I’m sure this department will be seeing _great_ things with you two working as partners.” He looks like he wants to say more— the phone on his desk stops him before he can. “Ah, this must be important. You two are excused.” He waves them off with another friendly smile. “Go. Shoo. Get to know each other better.”

Marie gives Bailey a polite smile of her own as she grabs her stack of paperwork and moves to stand, tucking it all under her arm. She absentmindedly smooths out her skirt. “Thank you again, sir,” she says, dipping her head in respect before turning on her heel and marching _right_ out of there, leaving Roy behind without a single thought. God, did she really have to get partnered with _him?_ The man who was, by all accounts, a downright scumbag and crooked bastard? There’s of course the fact that he gave Cole’s eulogy, but— that doesn’t change everything her husband told her about him.

Once again, she’s snapped out of her thoughts by their very subject. “You can stop giving me the cold shoulder,” Roy drawls, and he’s already got another cigarette bit between his teeth, focused on lighting it. Once he manages, he continues with a cloud of smoke. “If we’re going to be working together, we need to be civil, don’t you think?”

“You should say that to yourself,” Marie remarks, huffing as she comes to an abrupt start. She spins around on her heel to face him, sharp and quick. Her mouth is open with the full intent to continue, but when they lock eyes, everything she’d thought to say has been stolen away. She has no idea _why—_ she’s generally a good speaker. Why is it _now_ that she finds herself without a single word in her mind? Shaking her head with a sigh, she reaches up with her unoccupied arm and massages her temple. “No, no, you’re right. I suppose I just—” She cuts herself off and purses her lips, eyebrows furrowing. “My only real impression of you is what Cole told me. What he _complained_ to me about, to be more accurate.”

Roy keeps his own gaze on her, steady and unyielding and unfairly _blue_. They’re far different from Cole’s; where her husband’s eyes had been pale and icy, his were more like two unique rings of sea glass. “That’s funny,” he says, crooked grin tugging at his lips once more. “I would think you’d be the _last_ person to judge a book by it’s cover. Guess you’re a hypocrite, huh, sweetheart?” He takes a long, slow drag and blows smoke out— this time, for whatever reason, he makes the effort to aim it away from her.

Marie squeezes her eyes shut at that, tight enough to see stars bloom across the black. “You don’t even have a cover,” she mumbles, “you’re an open book. You’re easier to read than what I give my children.” She opens her eyes then, and they’re back on his immediately. What she expects to see by observing him so closely, she doesn’t know— but whatever it is, she’s searching long and hard, almost _drowning_ in the deep blue of his eyes. She takes a deep breath; she hopes he doesn’t know she’s bluffing, staying silent both for the sake of her sanity and to avoid ruining their partnership even further.

Roy doesn’t seem _too_ put off by her words, just focusing on wearing down his cigarette. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he says, and before Marie can reply, he holds out his free hand for her. All she does is stare at it. “Come on, doesn’t matter how much we hate it, we’re stuck together. Let’s start things off on the right foot.”

Another deep inhale, letting it out through her nose. “Sure,” Marie says, “I think I can do that.” So she reaches out and takes his hand, giving the same firm shake she’d given Bailey just a few minutes earlier, standing at her full height—a measly 5’3” in comparison to Roy’s 6’2”—in an attempt to maintain control of the situation. As she shakes his hand, she glances up into his eyes, giving a forced smile. “Partners?” She asks.

“Partners,” Roy parrots back, pulling his hand from hers. His fingers brush against her palm and maybe it’s just the winter air generating static, but— there’s a spark. An awful, no-good _spark._ “I look forward to working with you, Ms. Phelps.” A pause. “ _Detective_ Phelps.”

Marie’s smile turns far too genuine for comfort, and she pulls her hand away to fold it with her other in front of her. Reserved and elegant— that’s how she was raised, and she isn’t going to let it change now. “I look forward to working with you, too, Detective Earle,” she says, glancing over her shoulder towards the staircase. Her eyes return to Roy’s. “I’m going to head out, now. My children are probably waiting on lunch.” She breathes out a fond laugh for her girls, taking a few steps back. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Roy gives her a small wave, crooked grin on display. “Guess so.” He says nothing more, merely turning on his heel to head on his way, smoking his way through his cigarette. Even when he’s gone, Marie has to note that he leaves behind his presence in more ways than one— his smoke, his cologne, his words lingering in the air. She inhales sharply— exhales. _Breathe._ With a hard swallow, she pivots around on her heel and heads for the stairs, oxfords clicking across the floor. This job is going to be an _interesting_ phase of her life, to say the very least.

She just hopes she doesn’t have to live in her husband’s shadow.

 

* * *

 

When Marie comes home, she immediately leans back against the door, eyes shut as she tilts her head back and takes a cleansing breath.

Quite honestly, she’s still _shocked_ that all it took to land a job as a detective—in _Vice,_ no less—was to walk in and ask. There’s part of her that tells her to be realistic, that the only reason she was even _considered_ for the position is because she carries the name of the man they revered and reviled all the same. That none of that was based on her own merit, that even as she’s a widow with nobody but her children by her side, she’ll still always be a dead man's wife and nothing more. For God’s sake, it’s too much— these ceaselessly nagging thoughts are all _too much._ Why on Earth can’t she let herself be _happy_ for once?

She runs a hand down her face before moving into the kitchen, eyes on the paperwork in her hands. It’s not _too_ bad, she supposes— nothing more than what’s absolutely necessary. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she uses one hand to unknot her tie and the other to hold up the first page as she skims through it, going through each and every thing she’ll write in her mind. She’s so focused on sorting everything out that she doesn’t even hear her hired nanny coming inside, the door to the back porch softly swinging shut.

“Ms. Phelps?” That gets Marie’s attention and she snaps her gaze up to meet the younger woman’s eyes. “You’re home earlier than I expected. Did everything go alright down at the station?”

Marie offers a weak, barely-there smile upon seeing Matilda’s face, setting her paperwork on the kitchen counter. “Well,” she starts as she reaches back and rubs at her neck, popping it a moment later. There’s a beat of silence as she wordlessly gestures towards the stack of papers. “It seems I got the job.”

Matilda clasps her hands together in front of her. “Oh! Congratulations, Ms. Phelps.” She gives her a soft smile. “That’s very exciting— you should be proud.” A pause, as her smile turns a bit sheepish. “Though, not to be rude, but you don’t seem _too_ excited yourself.”    

With a hum, Marie moves to lean against the countertop, reaching for the tin of cigarettes that sits there. Once she pulls one out, she sticks it between her teeth and lights it with a lighter from her skirt pocket, setting both items on the counter. She takes a long drag before continuing, her cigarette between two fingers as she speaks. “I don’t know,” she says, eyes on the ceiling. “I _am_ excited, but I feel that they took me in only because of Cole and the— I don’t know, _legacy_ he left behind.” Her nostrils flare as she sighs, shaking her head. “There’s _that,_ and the fact that I’m partnered up with the man he hated most to work with.”

Matilda lets out a small _‘ah’_ , brushing some loose hair back into place. She looks to be in thought, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Then, with a clap of her hands and a bright grin, she says, “Well, you'll just have to prove that you’re your own person, yes? I'm sure you're capable of that much, Ms. Phelps, and you'd be setting a good example for the girls— show them that they don't need to settle for less.”

The young woman’s enthusiasm catches Marie off-guard, and to her further astonishment, it _thaws_ the frozen heart that hangs within her chest. Her smile turns warm then, as she returns her cigarette to her lips to take another drag. It’s much shorter than the first— she breathes out the smoke as she replies. “I suppose that’s correct,” she muses, eyes on Matilda as her pleasant expression doesn’t falter, not even once. “Perhaps _they’ll_ be the ones demanding a position higher than that of a secretary, one of these days.”

With a soft laugh, Matilda nods. “Perhaps,” she echoes, and she glances over her shoulder at the back door then back to Marie. “I can make lunch today if you'd rather spend some time with them instead. It's no trouble.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Marie says earnestly, taking her cigarette and putting it out in a nearby ashtray. She moves to walk past Matilda, towards the backyard where her children were playing— but before she can get too far, she places a hand on the girl’s shoulder and looks into her eyes, her next words carrying an oddly tender amount of sincerity. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Matilda. I mean it.”

There's a tinge of pink to Matilda's already rosy cheeks, as she gives Marie a bashful smile. “But of course, Ms. Phelps,” she says, brushing more hair in place. “It's my job to do what I can to help.”

All Marie does in response is give Matilda an encouraging pat on the shoulder, finally heading towards the back door. Once she’s there, she hesitates— her hand hovers over the handle, eyes down and defocused. Her heart, that was once sinking under the crushing weight of self-doubt, is pounding with newfound belief in herself and in the change she’ll bring to the LAPD. Hell, maybe her career as a detective will even bring about a change in the entire _world,_ showing that women are just as capable as men in such matters. And maybe, _just_ maybe, she’ll inspire the two most beloved people in her world; her wonderful daughters, Elizabeth and Juliet.

Inhaling deeply with a confidence that she hasn’t felt since adolescence, she opens the door and steps outside, calling for her children to join her.

**Author's Note:**

> yea heyo weird premise but shhh enjoy the ride  
> also jack/elsa comin next chapter. like in the beginning. yeet
> 
> \- ri


End file.
